Medicines Do to the Body What Fertilizers Did to the Soil
- Madhukar Dama
- 1 hour ago
- 9 min read
Everyone knows the story of fertilizers. It no longer needs discovery, only honest remembering.
The Betrayal of Soil
Once upon a time, soil was alive. It had breath, texture, fragrance. It had worms and microbes, unseen workers who built fertility with patience. Food grown on such soil had taste, fragrance, and vitality that nourished both body and mind.
Then came fertilizers. They arrived like miracle-workers, promising higher yields, quicker growth, and greener fields. And yes, they delivered — but with hidden costs.
The physical property of soil weakened. Porosity reduced, water could not seep naturally, irrigation demands multiplied.
The biological property of soil collapsed. Fertilizers and pesticides killed earthworms, fungi, bacteria — the invisible architects of fertility.
The chemical property of soil became unbalanced. Nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium were dumped in bulk, while micronutrients disappeared. Crops looked rich but were nutritionally poor.
The quality of yield dropped. A grain of wheat carried fewer proteins, a fruit lost its natural sweetness, vegetables lost minerals. The stomach filled but the body remained hungry.
Over time, land moved towards desertification. The more fertilizers were used, the less fertile the soil became. Dependency grew.
This story is nowhere clearer than in Punjab, the pride of India’s Green Revolution. Once called the land of five rivers, Punjab was known for fertile soil and abundant harvests. With the Green Revolution in the 1960s, fertilizers, pesticides, and high-yield seeds flooded the land. For two decades, yields boomed — India overcame famine. But today, Punjab’s soil is exhausted. Groundwater is poisoned with nitrates. Cancer trains run from villages to Bikaner for treatment. Fields, once rich with earthworms, now resemble sterile sand. The land is alive no more; it is addicted to chemicals.
The Betrayal of the Body
Now look at the human body. It follows the same script.
The body is alive, intelligent, self-healing. Immunity fights infections, wounds repair naturally, rhythms restore balance. Given clean food, rest, and natural surroundings, the body heals most troubles on its own.
But medicines entered like fertilizers — as miracle-workers. They promised quick relief: fever gone overnight, pain erased in minutes, infections crushed instantly. And they delivered — with hidden costs.
The physical property of the body shifted. Organs like the liver and kidneys became overburdened, working overtime to flush out drug residues.
The biological property of the body — immunity — was suppressed. Just as fertilizers kill soil organisms, antibiotics killed gut flora, vaccines multiplied, and the body forgot how to fight on its own.
The chemical property of the body was disturbed. Painkillers numbed nerves while inflaming the stomach. Steroids strengthened one function but weakened bones, skin, and mood.
The quality of life became deceptive. Outwardly, people seemed active; inwardly, vitality was hollow. Just as a glossy fruit has no taste, the modern body has no glow.
In the long run, the body moved towards desertification. Diabetes, hypertension, kidney disease, cancer — chronic conditions multiplied, making medicines lifelong companions.
This too is visible in India today. Reports show that Indians consume antibiotics at one of the highest rates in the world. Painkillers are sold over-the-counter as casually as snacks. Diabetes and hypertension have created an entire population dependent on daily pills. A study from AIIMS showed that in urban India, the average elderly person takes 5 to 8 medicines daily, often without full awareness of side effects. Pharmacies flourish at every street corner, and multinational companies grow rich, while human immunity quietly collapses.
The body, like Punjab’s soil, is alive no more; it is addicted to chemicals.
The Illusion of Emergency
And here lies the illusion. Fertilizers were meant for rare crisis years — a drought, a famine. Medicines too were meant for rare crises — a snake bite, a stroke, a severe infection. Emergencies are few in a lifetime, not daily events.
But in our culture, every minor ache has become an emergency. A cold, a cough, a mild fever — all demand instant pills. A farmer too now cannot sow without chemicals, as if every season were famine. What was meant as a rare rescue has become routine dependence. And routine dependence is nothing but slow suicide.
Indian Memory vs. Modern Amnesia
India once knew another way. Agriculture was sustained for centuries with crop rotation, cow dung, compost, and resting fields. Food was tasty, nourishing, and abundant without poisoning the soil. Ayurveda too knew another way. A minor cold was treated with rest, warm water, or a household herb. Strong herbs and metals were used only for rare conditions. The philosophy was balance, not daily battle.
But modernity created amnesia. The wisdom of centuries was dismissed as backward. The new gods were “high yield” and “fast cure.” The result: poisoned fields, drug-dependent bodies, and a culture that mistakes destruction for progress.
The Way Forward
The lesson is simple: soil and body are not machines; they are living ecosystems. They do not need fertilizers or medicines to function daily. They need trust, time, and nourishment.
Punjab’s farmers are slowly rediscovering organic farming, rebuilding soil fertility with compost, crop diversity, and natural cycles. Similarly, many people are turning back to food, lifestyle, yoga, and herbs for healing, keeping medicines as rare tools rather than daily crutches.
The path is not backward — it is forward with memory. To return to what always worked, while refusing the trap of addiction.
The Final Truth
Medicines do to the body what fertilizers do to the earth. They rescue in rare emergencies, but destroy when made routine. They promise life, but deliver dependency. They leave behind deserts — in the land, and in the human body.
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DESERTED SOIL & HALF DEAD BODIES
-- a dialogue with Madhukar
Scene:
Early morning at Madhukar’s off-grid homestead near Yelmadagi. The air is still, the light soft. A farmer and his wife walk up the mud path. They have come after reading Madhukar’s article, “Medicines Do to The Body What Fertilizers Did To The Soil.”
The words did not just inform them — they pierced through. For the husband, whose soil has turned lifeless despite years of farming, it felt like someone had written his diary. For the wife, whose body depends on a pocketful of pills to function, it felt like someone had described her secret struggle.
They arrive together, seeking answers they could not find elsewhere.
Characters:
Farmer (Husband): A man in his forties, worn by years of chemical farming. Once proud of his land, now defeated by barren fields.
Woman (Wife): His partner, carrying her own burden — years of self-medication, from prescriptions to over-the-counter drugs to whatever neighbours suggested. Her body feels caged in pills.
Madhukar: Host, guide, thinker, living simply on his homestead. His life is not theory but practice, rooted in trust of soil, body, and balance.
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The Conversation
Farmer:
When I read your words, I felt they were written about me. My land was once alive. I remember sowing jowar and the soil smelling sweet after the first rain. Earthworms wriggled out, showing me its richness. Crops grew steady, without effort. Then came fertilizers. At first, it was magic. Taller plants, greener leaves, faster growth. For a few years, I thought I was a king. But today the soil is like ash. It hardens after irrigation. It does not hold water. The worms are gone. I pour in more bags each season, yet the yield shrinks. And even what grows feels hollow.
Woman:
And I felt the same when I read it. My body too was once alive, strong. A fever would come and go, a cough would settle with rest. But then pills entered my life. First prescribed ones, then those I got from the chemist. Later, neighbours offered what had worked for them. Sometimes I even bought tablets from the kirana store — they sell strips along with groceries. Painkillers, tonics, sleeping tablets, antibiotics. Slowly, my body stopped listening to itself. Now I cannot live without them. If I stop, pain and weakness overwhelm me. If I take them, relief comes for a while, but leaves me emptier.
Farmer:
We came here because we saw ourselves in your article. My soil is your example; her body is your example. Fertilizers killed my land. Medicines are killing her health.
Madhukar:
Both of you are right. Soil and body are mirrors. Both are living systems, both are intelligent, both are designed to repair themselves. But when they are forced every day with chemicals, they lose their rhythm. Fertilizers destroy the soil’s natural fertility. Medicines destroy the body’s natural immunity.
Farmer:
What can I do now? Without fertilizers, no crop grows. The field has become dependent.
Woman:
What can I do? Without pills, my body collapses. I am also dependent.
Madhukar:
The truth is this: your land is not addicted. Your body is not addicted. It is you who have been trained to depend. Fertilizers never created fertility — they only forced growth. Medicines never created health — they only silenced symptoms.
Farmer:
So, my soil still has life hidden somewhere?
Madhukar:
Yes. Compost, cow dung, green manure, and rotation — these can revive it. Give the soil time to rest. Let natural matter feed it. Slowly, the worms will return, the microbes will multiply. Yield may be smaller at first, but it will carry strength. And once the soil remembers, it will sustain you without chemicals.
Woman:
And my body? Can it recover after so many years?
Madhukar:
Yes. Food must become your medicine again. Fresh grains, vegetables, pulses, spices — turmeric, ginger, neem, tulsi — these are not just ingredients, they are healers. Good sleep, sunlight, walking, breathing deeply — these are medicines too. Your body will resist at first, because you have silenced its signals for years. But once it finds space, it will return to its own rhythm.
Farmer:
Soil needs trust.
Woman:
And the body too needs trust.
Madhukar:
Exactly. Both are living. Both want to heal. The greatest mistake is to call every small issue an emergency. When you call every season a drought, you destroy the field. When you call every headache a crisis, you destroy the body. Learn to let small fevers burn, learn to let small weeds grow. That is the way balance sustains itself.
Woman:
Then why are we told otherwise? Why do they make us believe that we cannot live without pills or without fertilizers?
Madhukar:
Because dependency makes others rich. Fertilizer companies grow rich from dead soil. Pharmaceutical companies grow rich from weak bodies. The more you believe in their tools, the weaker you become, and the stronger they become.
Farmer:
So, the land beneath me and the body within her are truly one story.
Madhukar:
One story. Fertilizers did to the soil what medicines are doing to the body. They promise abundance, but deliver dependency. They give relief, but leave deserts behind.
Woman:
Then our path back is not about invention. It is about remembering.
Farmer:
Compost for the soil, real food for the body. Cow dung for the land, rest for immunity. Rotation in the field, rhythm in our lives.
Madhukar:
Yes. This is not a new discovery. It is a memory waiting to be restored. You must not be impatient. Just as the soil takes time to recover, the body takes time to heal. But recovery is certain when you stop interfering daily.
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Scene Ends:
The couple rise. They do not carry chemicals or medicines. They carry seeds of a different kind — solutions. The farmer sees a path to bring life back to his barren soil. The woman feels a way to bring strength back to her weakened body. Together, they return to their village with trust, patience, and balance, ready to remember what was always known.
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Bags and Strips
the land once knew
how to feed itself,
like an old woman
who remembers every spice
without looking at a book.
worms worked
like invisible farmers,
roots tangled and sang,
and the soil held water
the way a mother
holds her child.
then came the bags.
white sacks with names
too long to pronounce.
magic dust that made plants
shoot up like soldiers,
leaves greener than god’s parrot,
harvest heavier than dreams.
the farmer smiled,
for a few years.
then the bags turned greedy.
soil hardened,
water slipped away,
worms disappeared.
the land demanded more
each season,
and gave back less.
the farmer watched
his wealth collapse
under the weight
of his miracle.
---
the body too
once knew its own ways.
a fever burned
and cooled like monsoon,
a cut closed
without applause.
pain came,
then left
like a guest
who respects the house.
then came the strips.
colorful little rectangles
with bitter coins inside.
tablets from the doctor,
capsules from the chemist,
pills from the neighbor,
powders from the shopkeeper
who sells rice, soap, and cure
all in one breath.
the woman smiled,
for a few years.
then the strips turned greedy.
sleep vanished,
organs strained,
stomach bled.
her body, too,
demanded more
each day
and gave back less.
the woman watched
her strength collapse
under the weight
of her miracle.
---
soil and body
two chapters of the same book.
one written in roots,
the other in blood.
bags of fertilizer
turning soil to sand,
strips of medicine
turning flesh to stone.
both promise abundance,
both deliver famine.
both kill the invisible workers —
worms in the earth,
immunity in the veins.
and in both stories
someone else grows fat —
companies, dealers,
men who never touch
the soil or the sickness.
---
yet the soil waits,
quiet under its scars.
a handful of dung,
a season of rest,
a return to patience —
and worms crawl back,
like old friends.
the body waits,
quiet under its pain.
a bowl of real food,
a stretch of sleep,
a return to balance —
and breath deepens,
like a river found again.
---
this is the joke,
the tragedy,
the comedy of progress:
that we spend our lives
buying bags and strips
only to discover
that both soil and body
wanted nothing more
than to be left
to their own
ancient intelligence.
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